


On Love, In Sadness

by ununoriginal



Category: KAT-TUN (Band), Kanjani8 (Band), NewS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, One of My Favorites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-28
Updated: 2009-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununoriginal/pseuds/ununoriginal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyday, he sees dead people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Love, In Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> Something that just caught a hold of me after I watched Departures/おくりびと and simply. wouldn't. let. go.

Everyday, Nakamaru sees dead people.  
  
When he began his so-called training, he was told that sooner or later, he would get used to it.  But that tiny shock still goes through him, each time he comes face to face with a dead body.  That instant when the square piece of white is drawn back, revealing the deceased's face, frozen in the rictus of death, shorn of the living glory that suffused his or her features in the photographs his client's family produces for his reference.  
  
The first person he ever sees being prepared to be sent off is his mother.   
  
He remembers kneeling on the tatami next to his father, his grandmother on his other side silently weeping and holding his sister tightly, the blank space between where her body lay and where he and his family were gathered, like a chasm delineating the divide between the living and the dead.  
  
He remembers watching as the _noukanshi_ placed his hands together in a gesture of respectful prayer, and asked his father for permission to proceed with his preparations in hushed tones.  The exact details of the procedure are lost to Nakamaru's memory, but that initial impression of reverence, of the utter care and concern lavished upon his mother's earthly remains, stays with him.   
  
He remembers looking at his mother's image in the photo frame on top of the television and then turning to see the _noukanshi_ sitting back, silently packing away his brushes and make-up compact.  His mother had been transformed – the ravages of illness that had sapped the colour from her cheeks and carved wrinkles upon her brow, making her a living shadow, were no longer evident.  The years had been peeled away, and she was serene, tranquil in repose, vibrant in death in a way that for a long time, she hadn't been in life.  
  
There was a small, choked sound from his father, and he realised that his father was crying, the first and last time he ever saw the emotionally reserved man do so, shoulders heaving and lips trembling from the effort of holding back his sobs.  Slowly, gradually, his father leaned forward and crawled closer, where he could receive the wet towel from the _noukanshi_ to administer the _matsugo no mizu_ , roughly swiping the tears rolling down his cheeks with the back of his hand before tenderly wiping her brow in his final act as her husband.  
  
When it was his own turn to take the towel, he gazed up from the damp cloth to meet the quiet sadness swimming in the _noukanshi_ 's eyes, back to the hands holding out the towel, reaching out across to him over his mother's body.  He faltered as he brought the cloth down, fingers shaking too much, until a pair of larger hands covered his own, gently guiding him as he helped cleanse his mother of her worldly concerns.  
  
 _Like a bridge_ , Nakamaru had thought.  _Like a link, bringing together the dead and those who have been left behind._  
  
It's been more than a decade since then, and Joushima-san has all but retired, leaving most of the requests that come through the agency in Nakamaru's care.  Work is seasonal, and sometimes Nakamaru does virtually nothing but lounge in his chair with his feet on his desk, exchanging aimless banter with Massu, their receptionist-cum-secretary-cum-all-around-admin-person.  Then there are times when he needs to be three places in a day, and he's running himself ragged trying to make the next appointment in the company's old black hearse.

He once had to take a call in the middle of the night to attend to the mother of a distraught young man.  She was the owner of a ramen shop, and had tripped and fallen down the stairs as she was coming down in the dark.  Her son had insisted his mother's body be prepared as soon as possible because he wouldn't have time for it the next day – he would have to open shop.  His mother had never taken a day off in her life, with the exception of New Year's Day.

Nakamaru had smoothed her hair back and combed it behind her ears.  Gently he ran his fingers over her features, lightly pressing over the brows and cheekbones, following the bridge of her nose to her mouth and chin.  Imperceptibly the _rigor mortis_ locking the facial muscles loosened through the delicate massage, allowing Nakamaru to ease away the pain and suffering caught in her expression.  Her skin had been slightly tanned, like her son's, and he chose a darker foundation to powder her face.  Carefully he'd used his tweezers to define her eyebrows and applied a subtle eyeshadow and blush.  Then he'd outlined and painted her lips with the lipstick her son had handed to him, a rich crimson, _her only indulgence_ , Koyama-san had said, his voice breaking.

Koyama had thanked him profusely before he left.  _She's gone on the vacation she always said she would go for, and she's left looking her best._

Still, there are also times when Nakamaru's presence is not exactly welcomed.  He's called on homes where he's greeted with hostility, where the son is coldly angry, biting and scathing, _he abandoned us for years and years, leaving us to fend for ourselves, he doesn't deserve any of this._   Stoically, Nakamaru will work under the resentful eyes of the son, who's glaring at the lifeless shell of a man he barely recognises as his own father.  Step by step, Nakamaru will fold and unfold the layers covering the body in sequence, allowing him to disrobe and reclothe the dead man in a manner that manages to shield him from his family's view.  After Nakamaru tugs the line of the kimono straight, he will shift back to kneel near the dead man's head, and ask the family to proceed with the cleansing of his face.

Instead of passing the towel over his father's face, Yamashita-san tosses it carelessly aside.  It lands with a wet 'plop' upon the sleeve of the kimono his father is wearing, leaving dark tracks of moisture.  Wordlessly, Yamashita-san leaves the room, shoving the sliding door closed with more force than necessary.  His mother remains where she is kneeling, face expressionless as she watches Nakamaru pick up the cloth and use another dry towel to blot out the wet spot.  He always leaves such gatherings saddened by the knowledge that even in death, some things won't, or can't, ever really end.

Once in a while, Nakamaru gets a more challenging client, such as a victim of an accident or assault.  With these cases, he always asks the family if they're comfortable watching, or if they prefer to re-enter the room once he has completed his work.  The young man's parents and friends had paled slightly, but none made a move to leave.  Nakamaru had uncovered the dead youth's face, discoloured and puffy from the beating.  Glancing at the photograph beside him, Nakamaru fixed in his mind the image of the young man as he was alive, head thrown back in joyful mirth, eyes slightly crinkled and lips smiling wide.

Painstakingly, Nakamaru coaxed the swelling from Shibutani-san's features, evening out his expression into one of peaceful calm, concealing the garish purple-green of the bruises under a thick layer of foundation.  As he worked at loosening the stiff joints, he noted in passing the tattoo of the skull on the back of the dead man's right hand.  Later Nakamaru wrapped the prayer beads over Shibutani-san's right palm and interlaced the two hands before raising them in unison, stretching the arms before pushing down to make them bend at the elbows, bringing the interlocked fingers down to rest upon Shibutani-san's chest.

_Please..._ The speaker was a young man with sandy hair about Shibutani-san's age, slim-built and small as well, eyes brimming with tears.  _Please, could you make sure you don't hide the tattoo?  Subaru would have wanted the world to see him as he was._ Nakamaru nodded and adjusted the rope of beads, draping them a little more loosely at Shibutani-san's wrists.

Nakamaru doesn't like to say that he has favourites, because he believes that each and every person to whom he offers his services has an equal right to it.  But he can't deny the warmth and consolation that fills him during the occasions when someone's passing helps those still living to finally set things right. There was the young man with a lawyer's pin on his jacket collar who stumbled in while Nakamaru was in the middle of dressing the dead woman who was the lawyer's mother.

Everything paused as all eyes turned toward the doorway, Nakamaru still awkwardly supporting one of her ankles, caught as he was in the process of uncrossing her legs.  Surreptitiously Nakamaru set down her foot and sat back up, waiting for the altercation that he sensed was coming to be resolved before he continued.

There was movement behind the intruder, and the dead woman's husband stiffened even further at the sight of the second man who appeared behind the lawyer.  _Otou-san_ , the lawyer whispered, and young man and old locked gazes for what seemed like a lifetime, a lifetime of denial and recrimination, until finally the older man's shoulders slumped, and he looked away, back to his wife.  _Oh, what's the point anymore?... Just come in._

Immense relief lit up the younger Kato-san's face and he stepped into the room, quickly joining his father in the front row.

_I meant... the both of you._

Kato-san's head whipped around at his father's pronouncement, disbelief written large across his face, gradually being eclipsed by a fragile, flickering hope.  He closed his eyes, ignoring the trickle of liquid that had overflowed and ran down his cheek.  _Arigatou, Otou-san._

The people in the front row shifted again to accommodate Kato-san's companion, a thin, solemn-faced young man with sleepy eyes and dark skin.  Once they all settled down again, Nakamaru continued.  With practiced movements, he turned the dead woman's body and drew the kimono around her shoulders, waist and hips before letting her rest upon her back again so he could draw her arms out through the wide sleeves.  He tied the knot on the sash and was about to commence with the _matsugo no mizu_ when the older Kato-san stopped him, holding out a glittering silver necklace.  _This, she said she always wanted to have this with her._

His son gave a start of recognition as Nakamaru took the necklace, sliding it under her neck and fastening it.  _Isn't that...?_

_Yes._

When it was his turn with the wet towel, the dead woman's son hesitated, then reached back to tug his companion forward until they were side by side.  Head bowed, he spoke, quiet but unwavering.  
 _  
Kaa-chan, I'd like you to meet Nishikido Ryo.  We've been together for four years now, and I wanted..._ His voice failed him as his emotions began to overwhelm him and only Nakamaru could see how Nishikido-san's hand crept up to grip his grief-stricken partner's.

_...I wanted-- want, to tell you that I'm very happy with him, and that I believe, with all my heart, I've found the sort of love and connection that bonded you and Otou-san together..._ He hunched forward over his mother's body, clutching her forearm tightly.  _I'm sorry, I wish I'd come back earlier, I'm sorry, I should have tried harder, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry..._

Two hands rested upon the young man's shoulders, sharing in his soul-deep sorrow.  One was Nishikido-san's, the other his father's.

Nakamaru remembers leaving the Kato home that day with a strangely light heart.

Some days Nakamaru visits the crematorium where his friend Maruyama works.  Maruyama is a naturally cheerful fellow, although able to summon the appropriate dignity required when consigning a body to its final rest.  Nakamaru often wonders why Maruyama ended up where he is, tending the furnace, while Maruyama jokes that they should strike out and set up their own agency, Maru&Maru.

_But don't you ever feel like all your efforts seem wasted?_   Maruyama asked once, when he was in a more serious, contemplative mood.  _All the time and energy spent prettying them up, but once the rollers start moving, they end up as ash all the same._

Nakamaru sees his mother's smiling visage flash before his eyes, bright with kindness and laughter.  Slowly her eyes close and her face grows still. 

Yet, the smile remains.


End file.
